Nightcrawler and the Terrible Memory Machine
by the-marmalade-cat2
Summary: (Story redone) Sometimes love can be a funny thing... When a mysterious young woman with an amazing power comes to the institute, Kurt starts an amazing friendship. But Magneto wants her, and the X-MEN learn that sometimes the greatest strength lies in
1. Note to the reader

Hello, everybody! This is The Marmalade Cat here, and before you read my story, I just want you all to know why I've rewritten Nightcrawler and the Terrible Memory Machine. I just didn't like it! It was totally not up to my ususal level quality of work, and I apologize to all the readers that actually DID like it, but I PROMISE YOU, this story is going to be SSSSOOOOOO much better...  
  
I want this ficlet to totally move you, to intrigue you, maybe even flutter your heart or make you cry. I'm a total novice that rarely even goes on the internet, but lately, I've had this strange urge to write, and so, here I am. I've become smitten with a certain blue elf, and I think he's just the sweetest thing!  
  
Whoah! Snap back to reality! In real life, however, I'm terribly in love with a very special boyfriend, and so you can pity him for having being forced to deal with me and my strange(yet surprisingly appealing) ways. And no, he doesn't know about this story. I would totally die of embarrassement if he found out I was posting a story over the internet about the X-MEN.  
  
But what can I say, its not like I do it often! Hell, up until a few weeks ago, I didn't even have an e-mail address, so forgive me if I mess up or take to long to post this.  
  
I'm just a crazy sixteen year old with a certain creative flair, and an affinity for a good old yarn. Flaky? Nah, just flamboyant. There is a difference, I can assure you.  
  
Well, here goes nothing!  
  
Enjoy the new and improved Nightcrawler and the Terrible Memory Machine ! (=^_^=)  
  
(Oh yeah, and by the way, don't you dare even think of TRYING to sue me. Nightcrawler and the X-MEN belong to Marvel (c.) But all original characters are MINE! Sucks to be you! Also, if you read, you'll judge, so just try to be a nice critic. I'm totally open to friendly suggestions, however. Just remember that you can flame me, but if you do, I'll flame you ten times back! Ta-ta!) 


	2. Prolouge

Sometimes love can be a funny thing, you know?  
  
Oh yeah, its all candy and hearts and rose colored glasses. Just picture this: one day, ol' cupid decides to get up off his fat ass and fire a few well-aimed arrows, slapping two beautiful people together like a homemade peanut-butter and jelly sandwich; the kind your mama might make you for school, all sweet and gooey and equally spread on both sides...  
  
Yum!  
  
You know, real classic Valentines Day style. And yes, they're both perfect for each other, and they both look great together, and they're lives are absolutely wonderful, too... (Did I mention they're also always a man and a woman?) No tragic Beauty and the Beast story here! No surprises, no arguments, no angst...  
  
And that's how true love is, right? Painless, ideal, totally predictable?  
  
WRONG!  
  
Sorry, Charlie, but it just doesn't work that way. That kind of stuff only happens in the movies, and unfortunately, most Hollywood directors just don't live on that little place we like to call Earth. But sometimes...  
  
Sometimes, you can just be walking along, minding your own business...  
  
When BAM!  
  
It hits you right smack in the face, and for one neolithic moment, when man meets woman, or woman meets man, or whatever...  
  
Everything IS perfect, nothing is real, and no one else matters... Nobody but that sole human being that makes your life worth living.  
  
And suddenly, you realize it!  
  
This is love. I AM in love. OH MY GOD, OH SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN, I ADORE THIS PERSON! I WANT TO BE A PART OF THEIR LIFE!  
  
But other times, something happens. You get in an argument, or he/she gets sick and dies... Maybe they're even cheating on you.  
  
Or maybe, they haven't even opened up to you at all... Maybe they're lost and forlorn, so swamped up in puddle of they're own problems that they can't see you, can't see the light... Maybe they just don't know how to reach it. You want to cry out to them, wake them up. You want to yell, "I LOVE YOU!" loud enough for them to hear...  
  
And sometimes, even more rarely, the hopeless romantic dares to face the darkness, give reproof to the impossible, and pull his lover out.  
  
This is such a story.  
  
So, tell me if the lovers are losers. We've added the tuna and bannanas to THIS sandwich. Tell me if love is blind, if their is no return to the light, and if two people can't beat the odds and win... Even learn to love again.  
  
Because, my dear, nobody knows this better than that our Nightcrawler...  
  
The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways! 


	3. Mommy, there's an ANGEL on the train!

"Oh, where these old shoes have lead me!"-- Peter S. Beagle  
  
Baltimore, Maryland, Train station October 1, 2003  
  
Train tracks... They evoke the image of destiny, of purpose, of longing whenever you see train tracks. At least, that's how I've always felt. You know, when you see people in the movies walking down the railroad or following a river, heading to some far off place, maybe even starting some journey, you might feel compelled to take a look at your own shoes and see where they've been, where they might have taken you.  
  
Rachel Tyler felt very much the same way about that sort of thing.  
  
She looked down. Her boots were big and black. They laced up all the way past her ankles and stopped in the middle of her calves. She liked them that way.  
  
Sturdy. Strong. Dependable. So the very opposite of herself. And there was comfort in owning something like that. Something that wouldn't break down or die on you.  
  
"I've been lots of places with these shoes," whispered Rachel, speaking to nobody in particular but herself. The ground beneath her feet was hard and made of concrete. She felt lost and slight amongst the crowd of people waiting for the train to arrive. But the railroad was just a few feet in front of her, and it smelled like iron. She knew the smell very well, and there was comfort in that, too.  
  
In the distance, a giant headlight appeared on the gloomy, gray horizon. Rachel could hear a whistling shriek, the warning that the conductor gave to tell anyone with enough sense not to want their guts plastered to the dining car to move their ass out of the way. Coming from further down the tracks, heading in a straight line now, the sound of rotating wheels, metal grinding against metal, seemed to come nearer and nearer, until it was so close that she could feel a rumbling deep from within the earth. Immense, and completely engulfing her in it's own shadow, the train, big and black and covered with graffiti, came to a agonizingly slow stop, the momentum still pulling it forward, almost tractor-beam like, then spitting it back out, as if the taste of rust and oil wasn't very pleasant. To Rachel, the train looked like a giant monster that had come to eat her up for what seemed like the hundredth time. She had always been running from one thing or another, and this always evoked the image of what a train might look like if it were picking up the lost souls in Limbo, and heading straight toward Heaven or Hell.  
  
"ALLLLLL AAAAAABBBBOOOAAAARRRRRDDDD!"  
  
A series of men flung open a door, one for every car . Same suit, same speech, same old thing. Rachel had been through this before.  
  
A sea of human beings, all different colors, some big or small, short or fat, young or old; they all rushed past her, urgent to get to where they were going, pushing past her and shoving her aside, totally unconcerned with how small she was, how tired she looked, how hungry and afraid she appeared...  
  
She felt so lost amongst the throng, small and windswept in her thick, black coat and pink, button up dress. It was like the movies. So alone here, in the eye of the storm, it seemed, suddenly she was aware of a mixture of envy and yearning while she watched all the busy people rush by, spilling from the station like water bursting from a dam. Some of them had families, others were by themselves. Many even were mothers with little children, scolding them for leaving their parent's sight, urging them to follow.  
  
I wish I had somebody to tell me to keep up right now... I feel like my feet have been bolted in place. I'm so tired of travelling...  
  
A raindrop splattered her nose. The sky had grown dark and cloudy, and she realized that she had quickly become the only person left that wasn't aboard the train. It was just that everyone seemed to have a point they were heading to, a home, a destination. To her, this was just another train ride, an escapist's route, a method of getting from one place to another.  
  
"Hey, lady!"  
  
Lost in thought, one of the ticket holders on the boxcar brought her back to earth.  
  
"You comin' or what, eh?" His voice was gruff and northeastern, and he seemed to assume that she was crazy, judging by the puzzled expression he wore on his craggy face. What was this chick doing, just standing there?  
  
She inhaled deeply and for a long time. Now was not the time to chicken out.  
  
She shuddered, smothering the memories of the man in the flowing, red cape. Looking down at her boots again, wiggling her toes out of nervousness, she mustered up what little strength she had.  
  
At that moment, seemingly from out of nowhere, a little boy emerged from the train, red-faced and crying.  
  
"Can someone help me? I can't find my Mother!"  
  
In his panic, the six year old tripped himself up on one of the steps and fell, hitting his knee on the railing.  
  
Quickly, without even thinking, and being a motherly person at heart, Rachel lifted the child to his feet and pointed toward one of the boxcar windows. There was a woman mouthing her son's name from behind the glass.  
  
"Is that your Momma, there? The one waving at you?"  
  
For an instant, the boy stared into his rescuers eyes as something he could not identify happened, something outlandish and fantastic... His eyes were suddenly dry, and there was no pain in his leg. Then she smiled at him, and he smiled right back.  
  
The ticket holder's eyes bulged out of their bony sockets as the bloody, angry looking abrasion on the child's kneecap melted away. The boy nearly stumbled again, dumbfounded, yet too young to understand the stereotypes his heroine would have be labled with. To him, this was magic.  
  
"Thanks, lady!"  
  
And as fast as he had appeared, the boy got up and boarded the boxcar, looking back one more time, head resting over his shoulder longingly, an expression of pure adoration on his face. He waved good-bye with one chubby, little hand.  
  
I  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut, locked her knees. With another lungful of air, she boarded her ride to safety. She found a window seat, pulled out an apple from her coat, and took a dainty bite, savoring the sweetness of it.  
  
"Holy shit..." The ticket holder gawked at the young woman in disbelief. Had that little boy's knee healed the moment she touched it?  
  
He gulped, and rubbed his eyes.  
  
"Damn... I really must need more sleep."  
  
He laughed at the absurdity of it all, and shut the door. Just as the train began to stir, he heard a voice, a child's voice.  
  
"Momma! There was an ANGEL on the train! She SAVED me!"  
  
The boy displayed his knee like a huntsman would his trophy.  
  
"See there?" He pointed to a barely visible scar, "She made it DISAPPEAR!"  
  
"Whatever you say, dear... But don't you EVER go exploring the train again or I won't take you to your Grandmother's anymore!"  
  
"But Mom, I swear..."  
  
The ticket holder swallowed the lump in his throat. He stole another glance at the supposed "angel" that sat at the very back of the train. She was grinning to herself as she chewed the remains of her apple, licking the juice off her fingers.  
  
He wiped his the sweat off his brow.  
  
"Oh man, I'm seein' shit..." he muttered, then reached in his pocket. "I need a drink." 


	4. Dreams

"Who are you?" "I AM VOID... I AM NOTHINGNESS... I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE... I AM THE WINGED MAN WITH THE TEETH OF A DOG... I FOAM AT THE MOUTH. I HAVE BEEN CONDEMNED TO FOAM AT THE MOUTH FOR ALL ETERNITY." --Phantoms  
  
They were coming for him, trying to take him away. Again.  
  
He was hiding... Hiding in an old, broken church. But everyone knows that you can't hide from God, especially not in his own house. Oh no. He'll find you, seek you out, no matter where you are, no matter how fast you try to run. And then he'll catch you, oh yes, send his angels after you and make you pay for all the bad things you've done... Throw you to rot in Hell with the demons and child molesters and serial killers for all eternity.  
  
Everything was blurry, blurry like the sky when it is hot. Hot as Hell, scorching like Satan. His body was poised in midair, suspended on the wills of these ambassadors of God, these angels sent to repent him for all his transgressions, for his disloyalty toward the heavenly father...  
  
They beckoned him by name now... Crying out, wailing like a foghorn in a shipyard, or a coyote beneath the moon, yet it was none other than Satan's voice, and he need not even open his eyes, yet he knew the truth now. He was damned, lost forever... A life of service could never make up for the man he could never be, and the warbling of the Pit now rang and pounded away at his brain.  
  
Blue boy... He remembered the big kids at the circus, how they would call him that...  
  
Kurt tried to scream, to beg for mercy, but he found his throat as dead and dry as a New Mexican creek, and that this new light, this unholy, hateful light shined in his eyes now, blinding him... He was damned...There was no hope for him now...  
  
Slowly but surely, he sensed himself melt away, drawing into the void that had appeared, a black hole with nothing down it but death... It would only be fair, for he did not deserve any Heaven...  
  
The last of his essence was swallowed by the darkness...  
  
He couldn't breath, couldn't think, couldn't see... He felt the nothingness of it all, of his pitiful, pointless existence, fogging up his lungs like the windows of a polish bathhouse.  
  
BAM!  
  
A door slammed...Footsteps echoed in the distance, and suddenly, the red mist of death was gone. He could hear voices, mixtures of words and sounds spoken clearer and clearer, lucid as the voice of an angel...Of a silver bell...  
  
"KURT!"  
  
Someone was shaking him, trying to kill him....  
  
He woke up screaming! 


	5. The Strangers

"Always watch your back, 'cause there's always someone waitin' to chew on it."--The Runaway  
  
" Well, this is it."  
  
The train stopped in Manhattan, right across from a Texaco station and an Italian Pizzaria. It had quit raining, and the sky wasn't cloudy anymore; the quiet after the storm, the smell of the wet, oily roads, spraying anything from mists to monsoons as cars passed by. She recognized the urban symphony of New York, the Big Apple, it's colorful song consisting of car horns and squealing tires. A hot-dog vender, fat and clad in apron, was selling his wares on the side of the station where visitors came, and for an instant, she was reminded of Moscow, when she was a child, buying fresh strawberries during the summer time, barefoot, with hands and fingers stained red from the juice.  
  
This was going to be one loooonnnngggg walk.  
  
She was the last to step off the boxcar. Ice had frozen slick on the railing, and she got off carefully, checking herself to see that she didn't slip.  
  
Yes, this would be a good day, a better day. The sun was shining, the air was cool and crisp, and despite the noise that came with the big city, she felt cheerful and optimistic, for she had slept long on the ride and eaten well.  
  
And so, renewed and hopeful for a better future, Rachel Tyler crossed street and headed northward bound. *********************************************************************  
  
She had strolled no farther than five blocks when she began hearing bizarre noises; strange, shuffllings of the feet, and her third eye warned her that she was being watched... Maybe even followed. The sun had already gone down,as it always does, and a few stars, many still cloaked behind the ever present veil of city light, had just begun to appear and greet the moon.  
  
Rachel only stopped to get a slice of pizza. The waitress had been perfectly friendly, and even told her of a few hotels nearby, ones with good rates.  
  
"Oh yeah, hon... They accept ova'night stays n' everything!"  
  
Her accent was thick and rich New Yorker all the way. She had heavily painted, fuschia lips and permed, orange hair that clashed with her ruddy complexion, fixed in place with what was most likely an entire bottle of hairspray. A large mole, the color of the crayon burnt umber, stuck out from the side of her chin like a sore thumb. Despite her garish appearance, she somehow seemed friendly and congenial, with warm, green eyes framed by artificial eyelashes; on most people, it would have made them look startled and tawdry, but on her, it only gave the impression that she was a woman with eccentric tastes and a very tight budget.  
  
"Oh, thank you, Ma'am... But I've got to keep walking... I have an, erm, important meeting to attend to." Rachel said, not wanting to stay for long.  
  
The waitress only smiled at her, flashing a set of perfectly straight, oversized front teeth that gave way her Norwegian descent . She was older, and regarded the little woman she was serving, barely over five feet tall, with genuine, motherly concern. If you were to put her thoughts into words, they would have been,"Oh my goodness, what a sickly, scarecrow of a girl, and so pale, too... I wonder what ever happened to such a pretty thing to make her look as though she had seen a ghost!"  
  
"Ya know, honey, I support six kids on minimum wage, and I know a young person when I see one." She arched a thickly penciled eyebrow . "How old are ya, sweetheart? 'Bout sixteen... Seventeen, maybe?"  
  
"Twenty- one."  
  
Giving Rachel a look of genuine surprise, she benevolently refilled her soda.  
  
"This one's on me, sweetheart."  
  
"Thanks...B-but you didn't have to do that..."muttered the weary girl, rubbing her eyes with both fists, a curiously child-like gesture.  
  
The carrot-haired woman put a hand on her hip, real angry housewife style. This had to be a high-class society type gal...  
  
"You're not from around here, are ya, hon?"  
  
"No, not really..." said Rachel, the smaller of the two, twiddling her thumbs. She desparately hoped this woman didn't want to jump her, make her pay for coming to her side of the 'hood.  
  
"Tell ya what," the waitress dug deep within her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, "take my card... Its the Holiday Inn. I stayed here once, and its probably the nicest place you'll find 'round this ol' dump. Just tell 'em that Marge sent ya, and you'll be taken care of."  
  
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, sending little creases that spread up her forehead, heavily coated with foundation.  
  
thought Rachel, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief. Paranoia can be a really convincing emotion.  
  
"Ya look awful pale... I think you could use some sleep, sweety."  
  
She gave the young woman a wink. Rachel tried to ignore the flaking mascera that swirled around in her glass.  
  
"I'm a mom, honey... I know these things."  
  
A few minutes passed and Rachel payed for her lunch, bidding her good byes to the oddly garbed waitress that had been so kind to her, even bought her lunch.  
  
People like that just don't seem to be around anymore, you know?  
  
"Take care, hon!" Marge flapped her hand back and forth, shaking her finger at the little woman with the cherub features. "And don't ya come back il you've gotten a little fatter, ya hear!"  
  
But she would never get to use Marge's Holiday Inn card and order caloric dinners, for the moment she stepped gingerly out the door, she swore she saw something dart out of the corner of her eye. A head, or an arm, maybe.  
  
Something was wrong... She sensed it... Felt it in her very bones.  
  
She crossed the intersection, just to be safe. There was an alleyway up ahead, and she headed for it, certain that whatever she sensed that had been following her hadn't made it across the street.  
  
Too many cars...  
  
She leaned up against the brick wall, watching her breath melt away every time she exhaled, trying to occupy her thoughts.  
  
A gust of wind caught her off guard, tangling her fair, curly hair up and whipping her long trench coat against her legs. It was all that separated her thin clothes from the elements. Clutching her body, quivering like a mold of watery jello, Rachel sank to her knees and rubbed her hands together, trying to keep what little heat she had left from escaping her through her thin guaze of skin.  
  
"Oh...How did it ever come to this..."  
  
She remembered when being a girl hadn't been so hard, when she wasn't a full-grown lady, when she had a family, when she wasn't a freak... And oh, what she would she would give for someone to lean on, somewhere to call home. Her entire life, since her seventh year, had been completely devoid of stability, love, home, and family. It was just so hard, so unfair...And she had tried to block that out, too, those memories from not so long ago, just as she tried to obstruct everyone else from her world, her subsitence that had at one time hung by a meager thread. She had let too many people inside her plastic bubble, and she had let them pop it one too many times...  
  
There was just no room for any more mistakes. No more pain, no more grief, no more loss. She had promised herself that a long time ago when she lost the one person she could count on. And there was no doubt in her mind that it was her fault. Had she been born the normal way, the right way, it would have never happened...And now, when she had lived a life of wanting to be wanted, she was indeed hankered after, but by the wrong type of person. If she wanted to remain in control of her own body, escape was her only option.  
  
"But I feel like such a burden... The Professor's only aking me in 'cause he feels entiled to."  
  
She felt on the verge of tears... Was there no end to this sorrow?  
  
"Ohhhhh..."  
  
She curled up in a fetal position, and no matter how hard she tried to stop them, sobs bubbled forth from her thin, pallid lips. They were products of excess pressure and exasperation.  
  
Just as she felt the nothingness of it all, of the anguish that ate away at her like a cancer, there issued a...  
  
SLAM!  
  
A garbage can tipped over and rolled to her feet. She sat up with a start, eyes wide with fright and runny with tears, watching a motley colored alley cat hiss and dart back to the refuge of the shadows.  
  
"Only a cat... Only a cat..."  
  
She placed a hand over her chest in some futile attempt to slow her heartbeat, now thumping so loudly that she could feel the blood pumping through ears. Coming to the conclusion that this wasn't the best place to take a breather, she got up and kept walking, feeling as though her feet just couldn't cover enough ground. Some animal instict urged her to run, to get out of there, but she resisted.  
  
Just as she rounded the corner, she noticed that her dainty shadow had grown more feet, more hands. It was then she realized the chilling reality: they didn't belong to her.  
  
They were owned by a hefty, powerful man. There was a pause, then a numb silence; for every time she stopped moving, whatever projected this sillouhette before her kept coming closer, the outline of it's limbs enlarging like some alley way boogie-man that just kept growing.  
  
A gust of wind, the hissing intake of air--  
  
"Oh, but that's where your wrong, girly... I'm a hell of a lot bigger than a cat."  
  
She stopped in her tracks. His voice was very deep, very guttural, even primitive. It sent a numbing frost down her spine and adrenaline all the way to the very tips of her fingers, turning her flesh cold, freezing her feet in place.  
  
"You know me, don't you?" "I don't..."  
  
She kept walking, forcing herself not to look back. Oh, how trouble always loved to follow her...  
  
"Yes, you do."  
  
She could hear the man-beast advance on her now, the sound of his familiarly strident, lumbering gait bouncing off the alley fortifications. She wanted to run, but found that she could not. They had come for her many times before.  
  
And she was tired, just too tired of it.  
  
In the flash of an eye, her attacker had her pinned to the ground, his oversized hands grimy and rough against her skin.  
  
She recognized that musky stench from anywhere...The leonine mane, the bushy brows, the wily eyes that scrutinized her every movement...  
  
Sabretooth.  
  
"You should know better than to hide from us. I've been tracking you down for five years, and this will be the last time you EVER get away..."  
  
He slung her over his thick, hairy shoulder.  
  
A burst of new courage bit her, startled her, kindled her flame... She had come too far to be taken away, to be used, to become the instrument of a sick and ailing mind. She would NOT be captured by some crony sent to collect her.  
  
"You can't take me!" she bawled, beating her fists, flailing her legs in vain. "YOU CAN'T EVER TAKE ME! NEVER, EVER!!!"  
  
The hired abductor smirked, gradually revealing a fierce grin that snaked up the length of his face like flame, and a set of feral canines, undoubtedly lethal weapons used solely for the purpose to butcher and maim. His eyes radiated a cold, unwavering cunning, and a fury, too...They glowed with a light that gave no light.  
  
"You wanna bet, bitch?"  
  
Muffling her screams with a mighty paw, he pulled her hair taut, relishing the tears that spilled from his hostage's eyes. If he could have preserved them in glass jars, he would have, or perhaps frozen them to chill his drinks, just like Hannibal Lecter .  
  
And you, the reader, asks: It can't end like this, right? Then there would be no story!  
  
Of course not.  
  
Before he could make another move, a beam of light shot out from behind him, an otherworldly flash that zapped the back of his thick skull. It was something hot, something that burned all the way through the flesh.  
  
Another gust of wind caught them by surprise. Stronger this time. Fiercer.  
  
"Let her go." A strange voice, a new voice. Masculine. American.  
  
Sabretooth stood his ground, his back turned to the mysterious interlopers... He issued a low grunt, inching foward, trying to remain unnoticed.  
  
"Look behind you, old friend." Another voice. Feminine. Exotic.  
  
Rachel sensed a great busyness around her, a vast gathering of wind and energies that crackled and popped, making her ears sore and her mouth bone dry. She suddenly felt her captor's feet go beneath him, felt electricity rush from his legs and connect with her feet, her stomach, her arms, her scalp... Cold concrete made contact with her head as she crashed to the ground, hugging it so that the great tunnel of air roiling about did not sweep her up in all it's magnificent fury. Black spots danced across her line of vision, dabbling in and out of sight, then not discernible at all.  
  
"Already the second time that we've stopped you from picking on helpless girls," the male stranger said, authority, and strangely, a hint of sarcasm ringing in his intonation. Whomever he was, he was definitely in charge...  
  
"Don't get in our way again, hairball, or we'll send you gift-wrapped right back to your master's doorstep," spoke the female, voice solemn, yet completely powerful, " Maybe we'll even throw in a decent flea-collar as a going away present..."  
  
But the feral man gave no response. He lay eagle spread, out cold beside a brick that had apparently collided with his face.  
  
Rachel felt the sensation of being scooped up by a pair of strong arms.  
  
"Let's get out of here."  
  
The man set her down, steadied her, and displayed a hand. In the dim light, Rachel could discern that he was wearing...Could it be... Sunglasses?  
  
"My name's Scott Summers. This," he gestured to the white-haired woman next to him, "is Ororo Monroe. She brewed up that little hurricane for us..."  
  
Rachel squinted... The suits, the badges...X...  
  
"You're from the institute, aren't you?"  
  
The lady, the X-woman, snapped her fingers.  
  
"Bingo." 


	6. Come a Stranger

The needles... The two women... The doctors... The river... The mark of the devil on the back of his neck... He was in them and with them all, and each image haunted him out of the blue, all at once... Swimming before him, inside him, beneath him, above him, around him... So confusing... So misleading...And Satan held these memories on a silver platter, each as fresh as ever...  
  
Something inside his brain sizzled and popped... There was a fiery bird in the sky...A woman, the same color as he, more distant...And another one, closer...Frailer, more angelic...  
  
Then someone spoke to him, someone familiar...Someone female...  
  
He knew this voice... He had heard it before...  
  
Was it an angel? A demon? Or neither? ****************************************************************  
  
"Kurt...Kurt... You're dreaming, just dreaming!"  
  
His vision was not clear yet, for his eyes refused to open completely, but the figure looming above him could surely not be the Devil...And this place, it was no sanctuary for the damned, no broken golgotha. Could this be Heaven?  
  
No way.  
  
"Wake up, kid! You're havin' a nightmare!"  
  
Was this an angel? Did they have such thick six o' clock shadows? And were they always men?  
  
Kurt bolted upright suddenly, eyes wide, skin slick with sweat. For an instant, there was no sign of recognition in his piercing, yellow eyes.  
  
"DEMONS! DEMONS!!!" he ejaculated hoarsely, his mouth hanging slack, frozen in a perpetual scream. His torso heaved with every ragged breath that sputtered from his lips. A few stray beads of cold sweat spooled from his pores in tiny rivulets, sending shivering fits that quaked through his entire body.  
  
"Kurt--"  
  
He grabbed whatever person, unholy or not, he could get a cleave to. His hands shook as he implored earnestly, the expression on his face a mask of dread.  
  
"There are DEMONS...DEMONS ARE COMING FOR ME...HELP ME--"  
  
Someone slapped his cheek soundly, bringing him back to earth. Suddenly, his vision was more lucid, if not still a bit hazy, and his grasp on reality firmer. It was just Logan, the bad-tempered one...And he was back in his bed, no, on the couch near the dining room, safe from harm. That was all that mattered now.  
  
"KURT! There are NO demons coming after you! Read my lips, kid, you are h- a-l-l-u-c-i-n-a-t-i-n-g.  
  
"N-no demons...?"  
  
"NO demons."  
  
"No d-demons..."  
  
Kurt sat back, recoiling from the shock... It had just been a dream, but oh, what a dream! Birds, needles, demons... What next? And that voice... It was so familiar, so close, yet so very far away, too...  
  
"Man, kid, you can sure holler... I was about to get myself an early morning snack when you just started screamin'! I'm surprised the whole place hasn't woken up by now."  
  
The gruff man glowered.  
  
"And if that was your idea of singin'," he cocked an eyebrow ," then you better find another line o' work, because frankly, you STINK."  
  
He yawned widely and scratched himself.  
  
"What the hell were you doin' sleeping on the couch, anyway? Professor X didn't give you a room for his health, you know..."  
  
"Hey, circus boy? You there?"  
  
He waved a big, hairy hand in front of Kurt's face, startling him.  
  
"Jah! Jah... I'm here...Its just that," he grasped for the right words, "I was thinking..."  
  
"'Bout what? Getting singing lessons?"  
  
"Nein, nein," he seemed confused, still only half awake, "its just that my dream, my nightmare... It was so... confusing...So terrible... You understand?"  
  
He stared at Logan, searching his face for any sign of recognition.  
  
"Well, I'm no shrink, so you're askin' the wrong guy here..." "Shrink?" "You know, a--"  
  
A commotion could be heard in the main hall. They both identified the Professor's familiar, fixed voice amidst the chatter, but another door shut, and suddenly, there was absolute quiet, as if the entire crowd had vanished, or some monstrous apparition had appeared and silenced them.  
  
"What was that all about?" asked Logan. His nostrils dilated. "There's somebody here..."  
  
He rounded the corner swiftly. Kurt felt that he had no other choice than to follow. After all, if he wanted to be a part of the Xavier Institute, to feel that he belonged, he would have to participate in whatever going- ons occurred. Shakily, he slid off the couch, body still stiff and sore from all the tossing and turning he had been doing, and stood up. Glancing down, he realized he hadn't even changed his clothes. They were the same ones he wore yesterday, stripey and simple. He had a few other pairs that had been given to him, but they were all folded up in his closet right now. He would change later.  
  
***********************************************************************  
  
The trio of travelers entered Xavier's School for the Gifted. Immediately, cries issued of," Scott n' Ororo are back!". One little boy, yellow haired and freckle faced, had seen them coming through the window. However, their guest was much too short to have been noticed. Treading behind her rescuers, they were nearly an entire foot taller than her.  
  
"Where were you guys? Did ya bring us anything back?" he asked, static electricy gathering in his hair.  
  
"Well, erm, not quite..." said Scott. He heard a familiar humming, the sound of some large machine operating.  
  
"Oh, Professor!"  
  
Charles Xavier, founder of the institute, greeted them with an outstretched, open palm.  
  
"Good to see you all came back safely! And, ah," he tried to crane his neck around Ororo's back, " I trust you safely escorted our precious cargo.. Am I right?"  
  
"Oh yes, sir. She's just fine. We had a long chat along the way. Came all the way from Baltimore to see us."  
  
"Well, thank God for Cerebro, as I always say." He maneuvered himself forward with the effortless grace and poise of a man who had overcome a significant disability, kept his dignity, and still remained a kind, educated person with a deep understanding of human beings, and an uncanny sense of right and wrong. An eager crowd tail-gated him from behind, and Kurt, not wanting to disturb anyone, melded with the throng just as a shadow might have done.  
  
A few moments passed. The Professor saw no sign of this girl he had been so willing to harbor from the dangers he had been informed of, and after careful consideration, concluded that she might have been a bit timid. He adressed her in a gentle, reassuring tone, letting the encouraging words roll off his tongue in very nearly a whisper.  
  
"Don't be shy, my dear... We don't bite, I can assure you."  
  
He executed a gesture with his hand that appeared as though he was parting the sea, signaling for Storm to move aside. A hush came over the masses.  
  
"Even our Wolverine over there doesn't snap at the guests..." He glanced suggestively to the left, issuing a grunt from the burly man that hovered protectively over him, glaring, with his arms tightly crossed.  
  
"Oh Logan, don't be offended... " He slapped armament's back, brimming with good humor, appreciative of the concern which would not have been shown some time ago.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen... It is my pleasure to introduce our newest family member,"  
  
He smiled warmly, his arms raised.  
  
"Miss Rachel Tyler!" 


	7. Come a Stranger cont

In all his lifetime of traveling from country to continent, watching all sorts of people come and go, Kurt had never seen such an exquisitely delicate person.  
  
She was a petite woman, with a completely breakable looking bone structure, and a mop of curly, fair hair that hovered around her head as a halo would an angel's. She reminded him of the child actress that sung and danced in those old, black and white movies; with her bouncy corkscrew locks and tiny, snub of a nose. Only this version was all grown up, yet it did not at all lessen the angelic quality she radiated, nor the concentration of violet that tinted her irises, or the small mouth she wore with a half- smile, half frown; as if something troubled her, frightened her, oppressed her...  
  
Emerging slowly, shyly, with an uncannily ethereal grace, she inched forward to confront every eager, curious face that peered intently at her, half in wonder, half in awe of the sheer fragileness that her brittle body seemed to possess. There was not a single breath issued for a number of seconds, as if every person, finely tuned or insensitive, heeded and respected the fact that perhaps a single draft of wind might just blow her precarious body to pieces.  
  
With what seemed like a great mustering of courage, she smiled shakily, and spoke...  
  
"H-hello... Nice to meet you..."  
  
An entire audience fell in love with her. For so appealing was her voice, clear and high as a silver bell, yet quavering slightly as a cornered turtle dove might; with some unknown, unidentifiable fear, perhaps from natural shyness, perhaps from fear of rejection, perhaps from quite a bit more, that she was immediately looked upon with the adoration an adult might feel for a lost child, both full of sympathy and the reverence of something vulnerable and easily crushed.  
  
For the flicker of a moment, Kurt felt somewhat in awe of this girl, this angel, that had so seemed to have descended from some lofty, faraway place in the sky. The simple words uttered from those lips... And her eyes, even from far away: just a few purplish hues sloshed around inside clear cylinders, the same color as twilight. They were orbs of surprising depth, and emptiness... He had never seen such eyes.  
  
Kurt maneuvered his way through the crowd.  
  
I  
  
And that's when he grasped it, found what had been tugging on the frayed edges of his brain.  
  
The voice from his nightmare, then the indigo-skinned woman, and now the smaller, more vulnerable being, undoubtedly female, that he saw through the foggy haze of his dreamscape. It was her, then it was not, then it was again... She had been there, he had seen her, had been told from someone else, now even more familiar, to never forget her face... And yet... As the great ocean of people parted and he made his way closer, he could not be certain whether he was mistaken or not. He already knew the women sent to "repent" him, one dead and the other still alive, and that was reassuring, understandably just a twist on reality, but the conclusion to his dream had been so perplexing...  
  
And something about this woman...He felt a strange pull, not deja vu, but the complete opposite...  
  
Had that been--no--it couldn't be... She is gone, dead... Yet that voice, so comforting, that had spoken to him...  
  
It was then and there that Xavier's kind words snapped him back to reality.  
  
"This young lady has come to stay with us for a while... And I'm sure you'll all make her feel as comfortable and as at home as possible at our fine, fine institute."  
  
A random person asked," Are you a student, Ma'am?" and the Professor immediately answered for her, his speech curiously brusque and hurried.  
  
She met his gaze, and for all but a brief moment, smiled gratefully.  
  
"No, she's not a student, just a visitor... And I hear she has quite a talent..." he said, changing the subject," Oh, yes...Quite a talent for playing the piano. I'm sure if you asked her nicely she would play for you some time, that is, once she's all settled in."  
  
Rachel rolled her eyes with embarrassment as a few of the students, all male, all still raging with the hormones only teenagers could posess, begged for a performance. They made her blush.  
  
She had always had an affinity for being the center of attention, even if she would not admit it. Of course, all the jobs that she did in her travels had been under the spotlight, near the microphone, on the keyboard... But that dream was old, dead. There would be no little girl's fantasy careers for her right now.  
  
"Oh, no... I couldn't possibly...Some other time, maybe."  
  
She could not help but smile. Somehow, she felt that for once in her life, she was among people that would accept her for who she was, people that could relate to her uniqueness, and be it a curse or a blessing, recieve her endowments with a smile and not a frown. Just perhaps, she would be at home, even if it was only for a little while.  
  
She decided to quickly survey the institute and student body. Most looked pretty normal; there mutations not visible, that was, until a particularly colorful fellow caught her eye...  
  
Male, and entirely blue from head to his cloven feet, he possessed a pair of elf-like ears and luminous, yellow eyes that seemed to have a life all their own. At a glance, he was startling, if not even disarming. Yet something was appealing about him, too, in all his vulnerability, and the elfishishness he possessed was quite something else...  
  
Her first reaction, as always, when embarrassed and caught staring, was to smile. As if out of politeness, he smiled back briefly, too, tight-lipped, eyebrows raised, trying to hide his awkwardness behind a facade built from light-hearted bricks and congenial mortar. He was a little nervous around all women, however harmless, and generally tried to put up a front that projected a breezy, dashing character: you know, as if he were a performer, an actor, an acrobat on stage. It worked. Usually.  
  
"Well, lets get you situated, Miss Tyler... You must be so tired from all that you've had to endure. When you've settled in, I'd appreciate if you came to my office...We have some things to discuss."  
  
Xavier's expression was readable only to her. To nearly everyone else, it was a simple smile.  
  
Scott escorted her upstairs to her room. Kurt watched her dissapear, and suddenly realized how pretty he thought she was... 


End file.
